


More of the Same

by miss_nettles_wife



Series: Whumptober 2019 [25]
Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: (minor) - Freeform, Blood, Death Match, Fighting, Kidnapping, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Whumptober 2019, electo torture, poor poor charlie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21311236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: Whumptober day 26: abandonedCharlie is kidnapped into an illegal fighting ring.
Series: Whumptober 2019 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1501328
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	More of the Same

**Author's Note:**

> *clown emoji* 2015 bisexualcharliedavis called, she called me a bitch and said she wanted her fic back. This was meant to be part of a two parter but i can't think of the second part so it's on it's own, anyway recovery is one I want to use for a different fic idea i had on the bus today. At any rate, let me know what you think of the throwback (assuming you were here the first time lol)

It started like this: The first week he thought that Blake would come for him. He thought that there was no way in Hell that he’d just been kidnapped and there was no way that Blake couldn’t find him. It wasn’t even a clean kidnapping; he wasn’t drugged, he wasn’t beaten unconscious, he was just walking on the sidewalk and then grabbed. Surely someone would see the number plate; surely someone would know the car, surely someone would know that it wasn’t right for a grown man to be screaming and yelling and fighting like that.

But Blake doesn’t come after one week.

What does come after one week is his first fight. Illegal boxing, if it could be called that. It certainly didn’t adhere to any boxing rules that Charlie had ever abided by, what with the biting and grabbing. He stood by the ring, watching as two faced off against one another, desperate and feral.

He’d spent the week at the mercy of the man who called himself ‘The Boss’ and his whole body was sore from his attempts to thrash him into submission. His skin was tight on his bones with pain and he felt like his brain was going to burst out of his skull. He tried to escape, over and over. Through a window, pick the lock on the door, break through the door. After the last one, where he tried to turn the tables and jump on The Boss, he’d brought out the cattle prod. Charlie stopped trying to get away for the time being, too afraid of bringing that kind of pain onto himself again.

The room they left him in was quite bare. It had a single mattress on the floor, thin and dirty. There was a window that was boarded up. There was a small table that he supposed was for eating on. There was absolutely nothing to look at, aside from the peeling wallpaper and the off white paint underneath. He started to pass the time by thinking up things he’d like to do when he got home. The shower was one of them. He wanted to call his mother and to see his brothers too. He’d like to go back to work as well.

Towards the middle of the night, he’s put up against the raining champion of the evening. He looks hardly older than a kid. Charlie can’t fight him, doesn’t want to, so he gives the kid a win and limps away, subdued. The Boss saw right through his attempts to explain himself and forced him to spend the night naked and alone, cold through to the bone.

By that point, he was just praying for Blake to come save him.

The second week, he thinks Blake must just be minutes away from finding him because he’s certain it couldn’t take him this long. He’d solved far more complex cases in half of this time. It’s not until Wednesday that they give him something to wear. Which is good, at least he has that. Then The Boss paid him a personal visit to explain that he came from so-called good stock, and he was going to be a boxer if absolutely nothing else. Charlie's veins were so full of ice he couldn’t hardly move until he was alone again.

They set about training him. If one can call it that. Charlie didn’t call it that at all, he called it six hours of daily misery. Lifting weights until his arms gave out, running until he threw up, trying to fight when he was so tired he could hardly move. He didn’t think they were training him to be anything other than tired but the constant looming threat of the cattle prod kept him moving. He’d felt the bite of it already and he didn’t desire to feel it again.

It was later that night, as he tried to massage the cramps out of his legs that he realized that they probably weren’t training him to be stronger, they were making him unable to fight back. At least for now.

By the end of the week, they’ve eased off, let him rest, let him try and recuperate as much as he could. Then, once more, he accompanied The Boss to a fight. Once more he was thrown into the fray, and once more he threw the match. He didn’t want to fight children, he couldn’t fight children even if he wanted to. They were children, and he’d been a big brother for most of his life.

The Boss had a set of minions he was especially fond of. Especially fond of sicking on Charlie, that was to say. By the time they were done with him, the one with blond hair had his blood on his face and laughed happily at his frenzied attempts to escape by clawing away with his bloodied fingers.

The brunette was less amused and crushed his hand under an army boot until he pleaded for them to let him go.

When they finally left, he lay very still on his mattress and thought about Blake. Wondered where the hell he was, and why he wasn’t saving him.

After a month, He wondered if he was even looking. If he was prayers were worthless. If nothing was waiting for him out there. His confidence was shaken to its very core. It’s also one month before he wins his first fight. The idea of getting beaten like that again, of spending another night naked, it was too much. He was so tired from the workouts, he was stressed and scared and he just snapped. He won the match, and The Boss was so pleased that he let him sleep the following day.

When he woke up, he felt sick from what he just did, but so grateful to not have felt the cattle prod for that evening. The Boss sat next to him, and carefully wrapped his scraped knuckles with a bandage. It’s the first soft touch he’d felt the whole time he was here and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He was weak.

“So you’ve finally realized, about your so-called friends?”

“Real-Realized what?” Charlie had learned very quickly that saying the wrong thing would get him beat. The Boss fixed him with a look that sent his stomach to the floor. “Boss! Boss, boss, boss.” He added, fear an icy harpoon in his chest, pushing aside his ribs to get at his heart. The Boss seemed to forgive the transgression and looked back down.

“That they aren’t looking for you.”

“W-What?”

“They’ve already given up, put you in the cold cases.”

“No...No, they wouldn’t.” He said, and then he felt bolstered because one month was nowhere near enough time for Lawson to assign something to the cold cases. He was lying. They must be looking. They had to be. Seemingly realizing he’d overplayed his cards, The Boss stood and then indicated to his blonde-haired minion that Charlie was his for the playing. He tapped the solid barrel of the cattle prod against his hand and Charlie’s eyes widened against his will. “I’m sorry!” He pleads, but it fell on deaf ears.

By the end of month two, he was a lot more willing to believe that there was no one looking for him. He’s quite sure that his body is beginning to shut down, and he couldn’t take any more pain. He was sick of suffering. Then he felt bad right away. The Doctor had been in that camp for three years. He can suffer another couple of months. The Doctor has to be looking for him. There’s no way he’d just let his friend vanish into thin air. He has to. He has to.

By the end of the fourth month, he has a constant headache. He begins to play a game with himself when they leave him alone to rest. It’s called being grateful, and he tries to list off all the things that he is grateful for.

He’s grateful that they feed him. Every day, when he’d behaved they feed him something. It’s not consistent but he won’t complain. It doesn’t matter how awful it is, or how off-putting the texture. Food is food and he’s grateful to have it.

Water. They moved him to a new room with a tap after he won his third fight. He was free to use said tap to drink whenever he so desired. Or he assumed so; he had yet to punish him for it. That was something he was happy to have.

Clothing. He was fully dressed most of the time now, it was hardly a defense against the cold floor and room but his modesty was somewhat protected at least. He liked that. He less liked the occasional compulsion to remove said clothes to find more things to control but he hoped that meant his brain was still functioning, despite the head injuries he’d incurred.

He was very grateful that he was never put into a deathmatch. He’d seen them, seen the still bodies, heard the screaming men, the screaming victor. He was only ever in one fight and allowed to leave when he was done. He was grateful for that.

Month six sneaks upon him, and he wonders if The Boss was right about no one looking for him. Surely if they were looking at him they would have found him by now. Around this time, The Boss brings him a slip of paper. He hasn’t read anything in six months, it takes his eyes a moment to focus on what he’s been given. It’s an article in the paper, the date is what he thinks is probably six months from his kidnapping.

‘Beloved Detective Sergeant Put to Rest   
Rose Anderson

Held in a local Catholic Church, the crowd can hardly be contained by the building. At the front of the room, there lies a small jar of ashes, with a police hat next to it. Charlie Davis, six months after his death, is finally being laid to rest.

His mother’s speech began the ceremony, her eyes are damp and her hair freshly pressed.

“Sometimes, when I first wake up I can still feel you. Mothers can feel their children, where they are and I know what you feel like. Wherever you are, I can still feel you and when I wake up I forget that you’re not here anymore.”

She’s not the only family member to speak; there is hardly a dry eye in the house when we hear from his youngest brother, David, who is only ten.

“When I was five, so Charlie would have been about fifteen, we were throwing the football around in the backyard. It went over our fence and into the yard of Old Man Phillips, who was known in the street for being horrible to anyone who went to go get their ball and getting your parents involved. Charlie didn’t care, he wasn’t afraid of no old man, so he just hopped the fence and grabbed not only our football but the ball of every kid on the street. For a week, he was the greatest hero the neighborhood had ever known. To me, he still is.”

We go through the motions, those of us who knew him feel uncomfortable with the religious ceremony but we go along with it. The ceremony ends with a reading from his co-worker and close friend Danny Parks. Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

“Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.”

And so drew to a close a ceremony to remember a loved and respected member of our community.’   
“They think I’m dead?” He asked, voice soft.

“I did warn you that they weren’t looking for you.” He said, “It was a good use for the body of one of the losers from the deathmatch.” He shivered violently and wondered how exactly he’d managed it. If it was his clothes if they’d stripped the poor man of his name and identity. How Blake couldn’t figure it out.

He felt a hand on his cheek and realized that he was crying. He wanted to see his mother, and hug her and smell her perfume. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want to be here.

“Oh, Charlie.” The Boss said, his voice sickly sweet. “It’ll be alright.”

He found that hard to believe.

Ten months in he’s allowed to start showering with the others. Which is nicer than his current situation because the water his a) hot and b) not from a hose. Also, surprisingly, there is a mirror to look into.

He looks as awful as he feels, his eyes are sunken and lined by dark purple smears. He’s so pale he’s practically translucent, and whatever body fat he might have had is all but gone. His hair is greasy and it’s been a while since they last held him down and took a razor to his head. He’s given a razor, as he enters. He can shave, he realizes.

He can shave, so he does. It’s nice to control an element of his life.

They don’t like him in the showers. It’s a prison-style room with showerheads emerging from the walls and drenching them in warm water. He likes that it’s warm. It’s the first comfort he’s had in a while now.

One year.

Things I am grateful for:

Shower.

Clothes.

Food.

Mattress.

Sink.

Newspaper clipping.

One year and three months, he is going insane.

The fights have now become twice weekly, so he can barely recover from one before the next one. He’s pretty sure that no one is looking for him, by now. They think he’s dead and gone. Why would they?

Sometimes, when he lies there alone in the night, head pulsing, brain fuzzy, he thinks about home. He thinks about how much he’d like a home-cooked meal, how much he wants to sleep in a bed, how much he misses just the things he used to do for fun. The radio, television, movies, music. Human interaction in a positive way.

He thinks about how much he’d like to go back to work. To wear his uniform and drive with Danny. He wishes he’d rode on Danny’s motorbike, instead of just making fun of him for it. It must be fun to have the wind in your hair and the sun on your back. The only thing he has to do is to peel at some of the wallpaper, and then stick it back down with his spit.

He goes to the shower every day, shaves if he must, washes under the warm water. Men fight in the shower. He can understand the desire to disrupt the way of things but he restrains himself. Others do not. Usually, he tries to stay out of it; they don’t beat him so much anymore and he’d like for it to stay that way.

Not that they want anything to do with him, of course. He can see some friendships in the others, and all he wants is the same. Even now, even after all this, there are some things he simply cannot abide by. For example, he cannot tolerate when people pick on those weaker than them. So, one week, as he stands naked under the spray, he witnesses a fight between a smaller man and one who had crazy eyes.

He must be insane. He must be out of his mind because at the last second he steps between them. He gets stabbed. He falls and watched the water run red with blood as he lay in the spray, prone and vulnerable.

One year and three months he makes his first visit to medical. He’d never been injured so badly that he couldn’t fix himself up in his room. Medical is cleaner than anywhere else, probably to prevent infection he thinks

The Doctor is tall and has dark hair. He has a lined face and cold hands. Charlie doesn’t care for him, but he needs to get the open wound stitched up before something worse happens. So, he sat on the chair, and watched in awe as the needle was pulled through the skin, and then sealed the wound shut. Then he saw it. A set of unattended scalpels.

Without even thinking about what he was doing, or the possible repercussions, he grabbed one. Holding it between himself and the doctor, he inched back, knowing fully well that he was fucked.

“Charlie…” He said, in a warning tone. “Put that down before someone sees it.” Clearly, this is not his first rodeo. “If you put that down now, I won’t tell the Boss.”

“Tell me what?” There he was, standing in the door frame, glaring at him. He considered his options. There was no way to take on two in his current state. “Put that down.”

Panic rose inside him, icy, cold and familiar. He’s going to sic his two minions on him, he’s going to get the cattle prod, it’s going to hurt so much. No one is looking for him, no one is going to find him, he’s not going to go back to work or see his family there is nothing in his future but more of the same.

He stood there, and in a split second made his choice. He stabbed himself.

Unfortunately, he woke up. Still in medical, but now with two stab wounds. The Boss was watching him, his eyes are frozen solid and staring down at him. Fear again, he tries to move, to get away but he’s too sluggish. He’s delivered a new newspaper article.

‘Chief Superintendent Injured In Mugging.   
By Rose Anderson ‘

He looked up, confused and upset. Why was Matthew injured? Why was he being shown this?

“Do you still care about your friends, Charlie?”

“Yes…” He responded, his voice was about as slow as his brain felt.

“Since you don’t care about your own life, maybe you’ll care about theirs.”

“W-What?”

“You tried to kill yourself, so I’ve tried to kill him. Next time, I won’t fuck it up.” Charlie wants to say that he wasn’t trying to kill himself he hadn’t really been trying to do anything other than escape punishment but he has a feeling that will only manage to get himself into more trouble. “From now on, Charlie, you better win your fights or serious harm will come to your beloved doctor.”

And then he was left alone.

One year and six months. He wins every fight. He’s scared, but he believes fully that Bake will die if he doesn’t. This man had the power to kill him, why would Blake be the exception?

Fear and panic were constant companions. His brain felt like it was melting with it. He just wanted to do what he could. To make what was left of his life worth something. He was quite sure that there was nothing left in his future but Blake’s future with Jean? That mattered.

This is how it ends:

One year and seven months.

His first deathmatch.

He’d survived the night so far, the reigning champion. He was coated in a layer of blood and sweat, and it stuck to him in every place his skin touched skin. He understood, or so he thought. They’d spent the year training him, breaking him down, so he could win these fights. If he died, then he was just one more.

But he couldn’t die. If he was dead, then he had no way to make sure nothing happened to his friends. That mattered to him, it was the only thing that mattered to him.

The man he was fighting against was not a man, but a boy. He looked to be about Ray’s age, with the same eyes. When he blinked, he could swear that it was his brother. He’d do a lot to be returned to his family, he’d never fight with Bernie again. He’d never do anything that they didn’t want him too if it meant staying there.

He lunged for Charlie, who managed to dive out of the way, hitting his shoulder on the ground. Why was this child fighting to the death? What had he done to deserve this? He took two hits to the face, one of them knocking a tooth lose. That made him mad, and he got a solid kick into the kid's stomach, and he spat a mouthful of blood into the ring.

Charlie used his shoulder to wipe sweat out of his eyes before lunging forward. The kid was small and fast. Charlie was slow, he was so tired from fighting all night. He moved aside and let Charlie crash back into the ground. He let out a shout and scrambled to his knees before taking a knee to the face.

This time it was his turn to spit blood, and his broken nose gave a fresh gush of blood down his face and onto his chin. He’s glad to not be wearing a shirt right about now, he doesn’t like the thought of how sticky the blood would get on it.

He managed to scramble back to his feet, and focus his hazy eyes on the attacker. He needed to win.

There was no other choice.

He threw himself forward, and shoved the boy with as much force as he could muster, taking him down and wrapping an arm tight around his throat. He was crying, but he paid no attention to it. He had to do this.

“Charlie, stop!”

He stopped, mostly on muscle memory. He looked to find the issuer of the command. Lucien was standing by the ring, one hand out in front of him. He could see others with him, policemen, holding weapons. Weapons pointed at him. The boy in his arms scrabbled for air, tearing chunks of skin off his arms with his nails.

“No, no I can’t stop!” He shouted back, “I have to do this!”

“No, no you don’t,” Lucien shouted back, Charlie cannot fathom why. He had to do this, it was all he could do for his friends now. “Let him go. We’re here, you’re safe.”

“I can’t!” His eyes drifted to the men with guns, and his mind conjured up images of those weapons turned on the Doc.

“Don’t look at them, look at me,” Lucien commanded, and Charlie has to look. His brain won’t let him look anywhere else. “Tell me why you can’t let him go.”

“Because!” He shouted, and his voice sounds hoarse and scratchy. “Because he’ll kill you if I don’t!”

“I don’t think he can move, Charlie.”

“Not him! The Boss!” Lucien’s eyes went wide with understanding, and he nodded. Charlie felt like his heart was going to burst free of his chest.

“Let him go. Nothing will happen to me.”

“I can’t! I have to kill him!”

“No, no you don’t. I know you. You don’t want to kill anyone. You want to protect me, don’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s all I want to do!”   
“Then trust me. Just let him breathe, trust me.” His muscles seized up and the boy was all but limp in his arms. Lucien was approaching the ring and climbed up swiftly. “Trust me, Charlie.”

He does. He releases his arms, and the boy falls. He scrambles away, out of the rink and out of Charlie’s vision. He can’t move. Lucien wrapped him tight in his arms and it’s all he can do to wait. But nothing happens. Lucien is fine, he’s right here, he’s so close that Charlie can smell him.

“You’re alright.” Lucien promises, “And so am I.”

…

Here is what happened next:

Charlie learned pretty quickly that his estimate of time was off. What had felt like a year and seven months was closer to ten months.

He also learned that no one had thought he was dead for a second, and the articles he’d been given were fakes. Danny admitted to knowing that Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep was Charlie’s least favorite poem, and the anecdote from his brother came from one of the many appeals to the public for information.

There was a great deal more to be grateful for in the real world, he can put himself to sleep at night by listing them to himself, which is a skill he finds useful on long nights.

He was not capable of keeping his promise not to fight with Bernie, but that was to be expected.

Recovery was hard work, but there were no other choices. 


End file.
